37. Eric
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ERIC
In our apartment, my bedsheets smell like her. Every night now, she comes into bed and lies next to me. I don’t ask to feel the baby move anymore. My hands always find her belly, and hers always find me. So why can’t I just tell her to give up on this baby swing?
“These swings are all hideous,” she mutters, arms crossed over the rise of her belly. “Why do they all look like spaceships?”
I smirk as I crouch to check the label. “You’re nesting.”
She gives me a flat look. “Don’t patronize me.”
She leans back against a shelf stacked with diapers, shooting her hands to her lower belly and pushing up against gravity. I step beside her and hold the weight of her stomach as if I can carry it for her. The skin pulls taut under my hands, and my breath hitches.
“That’s just Braxton Hicks.”
She’s thirty-four weeks and three days, cantaloupe-sized.
I know it’s all normal: the tension of her skin; Beckett’s kicks against the contraction; the frequent breaks when we walk.
Still, anxiety takes hold of me if she so much as looks out of breath.
The tale of her own birth and how rough it was on her mom, Sandro’s every word in a tale I begged him to recount so I could be ready.
Preeclampsia’s heritability is high, but you can’t live in fear, he said.
“You know Diego’s sisters would love to throw you a shower. We don’t need to do this ourselves.” I glance at the checklist Val made us print out.
“We’ve had enough dramatic gatherings to last us a lifetime.” She fists her hands on her hips.
“Let’s look for a bassinet.” I pull her around the shelf to the next aisle. “The swing can wait.”
She tilts her head. “Why are you so good at this?”
I shrug. “I’ve had a lot of time to read.” And worry. And plan.
“So…” She brushes her thumb against the inside of my palm. “How do you like to have your dick sucked?”
I choke on my own saliva, coughing, while she pats my back. This is our homework to “normalize and demystify sexual intimacy.” It’s been… enlightening.
“You want to talk about this at the baby store?”
“I like to multitask.”
I snort. “O-okay.” Here we go. I scratch the back of my neck. “If I’m honest, my foreplay repertoire isn’t… extensive.”
Amanda snorts now, pressing her lips sideways.
“Look,” I explain. “Sure, when I was a teen, I wanted to try things. So, yeah, I had a few blowjobs and went down on a girl or two.” Heat gathers on my cheeks. “Then, college came and… well, sex hasn’t been intimacy for me.”
Her brows pinch. “You’ve been…” Her gaze shifts around, searching for the right word. “Active all this time.”
I nod and take a deep breath. “But I haven’t slept with the same person twice since I was twenty.”
Her mouth falls open, and I kiss it closed. I tug her forward to look at the bassinets.
“Why?”
I tap my fingers on the outside of my thigh and look down. “Because I wanted you.”
She holds my face, preventing me from hiding away. “Yes, it was pleasurable.” I relax when she doesn’t wince or look hurt. “I burned through all my firsts. By the summer you turned eighteen, I realized I’d fucked up all my firsts.
So I ended up deciding, if anything, you could be the first person to learn… me. What I like and how I like it. We could learn together.”
She’s quiet, but her eyes are fixed on me.
“I also haven’t dated. Not since dances in junior year of high school. You know—taken someone out, tried to impress them. Not once.”
She bites her lip. “You’ve taken me places.”
“Yes,” I say, stepping behind her and circling my arms around her waist. “I’ve been more in a relationship with you than with anyone. Everything but the name.”
“Everything but, huh?” she teases, a smile on her lips. “So you’ll tell me? If I do something you like?”
Amanda turns in my arms, looping hers around my neck. She touches her lips to mine, and we kiss languidly.
“And…” I murmur against her lips. “What do you like?”
She smirks and leans into my ear, voice sultry. “I’d like to feel your hands run down my bare sides, caressing me until my entire chest is beaded with goose bumps, and you suck my pebbled nipple into your mouth.”
Blood rushes to cock, making it grow against my zipper. We kiss until I’m rock-hard. When I open my eyes, her cheeks and neck flush a dark pink.
“I want you.” I lick my lips, my tongue darting at her bottom one in our closeness. “I want to try again soon.”
She gets on her tiptoes, and I dip down so she can nuzzle her nose against mine. “That was sexy,” she whispers. “Now honesty.”
I nod.
“Giving birth.”
I tuck her hair behind her ear. “Tell me why.”
“My mom had a rough time with it. I’m worried that even if everything goes well…” She traces the rim of my T-shirt, her thumb brushing against the base of my neck. “It will be bad, maybe it won’t feel good after… And you won’t want me.”
Her cheeks are crimson, and her gaze is fixed on my chest. The idea of me ever not wanting her is absurd, but if I told her that I wouldn’t be hearing her.
“I’ll show you I want you every damn day.”
She lifts her eyes to me. The lighting overhead reflects against the wetness. And this embrace feels like we’re pouring trust between us, not just as friends, but as lovers.
The cart overflows with large boxes, bottles, and onesies in sizes we’re not sure we’ll need.
There’s also a baby care set with tiny nail clippers—because apparently they’re born with Freddy Krueger nails, according to the birthing class coach.
When we turn the corner toward the checkout, a screeching sound hits us first.
Screaming. Not just a baby, though there’s that too.
No, it’s them. Cassie is red-faced, snapping about diapers being the wrong size, waving a container of formula.
In front of her is Daray, hunched over a massive stroller that looks expensive—more expensive than our whole cart—and not functional.
He’s fumbling with the handlebar while trying to quiet the squalling newborn strapped inside.
“I told you we should’ve packed a diaper—”
“Because when you say we, you mean me—”
“I’m the one who—” Daray cuts her off.
“No, you are not the one! You think you can just—”
The cashier’s gaze shifts between them, like she’s ready to quit mid-shift. The baby screams louder, but they don’t stop.
Amanda freezes, and then we smell it. She wrinkles her nose and presses her lips, trying not to laugh, but when I do, her shoulders shake. “It’s so petty,” she mouths at me. Still, seeing them deal with a blowout and nothing to clean it with? Too funny. And Amanda’s laughter? Too good.
Daray shifts, his eyebrows shooting up when he sees us. He clocks me, then he freezes when he registers Amanda’s belly, spine straightening mid-response. Cassie follows his gaze, and her body angling toward Amanda, clenching fists on her sides. I step between them.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Cassie’s mascara is smudged, hair wild and unbrushed.
“Why can’t you guys just fuck off?” She twitches as she points us to the nearest exit.
Daray’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I take a few seconds to observe his polo, covered in yellow crusts, and how loose it looks on him. He also looks pale and wrecked, with dark circles under his eyes. The baby won’t stop wailing.
Finally, someone gives Daray a pack of wipes and diapers, and he rushes to take the baby out of the stroller, a large stain covering the back of the pink onesie. When he holds her to his chest, he keeps touching the wet patches around her bum.
“You shouldn’t even be allowed in here.” Cassie jabs a finger at me, then points at Amanda. “You’re just playing house with his kid.” She shouts to no one and everyone. “That man”—pointing again—“is a baby thief.”
I take a step back, forcing Amanda to do the same, and bite my tongue, with boiling anger crawling up my chest. I’m about to speak when Daray finally does.
“Cassie, stop.”
She turns to him. “Don’t you dare defend them—”
“Shut the fuck up, Cassie,” he hisses. He glances at Amanda and me, then back at her. “Just pay for this shit.”
Cassie puffs her cheeks. “What?”
“You can pay”—he nods at the register—“or hold your daughter, who’s covered in shit and needs to get cleaned up. Quickly.”
Without warning, she slaps him, the smack of skin against skin echoing in the store until it’s swallowed by the baby’s screams.
I glance at Amanda, her eyes trained on Daray, covered in poop. There’s no cruelty in her stare, but neither is there gentleness.
The clerk gives the total. Cassie shrieks again. “That can’t be right! It’s a tub of formula and diapers! You’re robbing me!” She waves her finger in the clerk’s face.
When she refuses to pay again, Daray sets the baby in the stroller, wipes his shit-covered hand on her shirt, and pays. “I told you, you should’ve breastfed,” he mutters.
“And I told you it would make my tits sag. You like my tits!”
He picks the baby up again and rocks her, shushing in her ear.
Cassie stomps her foot, then screams, “Stop looking at the baby! You’re supposed to want me! You’re supposed to care about me!” She turns to us. “Oh, stop! This will be you in a month.”
I don’t flinch. “No, we won’t, thanks.” I nod toward Daray. “Get her out of here, man.”
Cassie storms off, pushing the stroller so hard it rattles across the tile. The baby is still crying in Daray’s arms.
He lingers, then leaves without as much as acknowledging either of us. I turn back to face Amanda and put my hands on her shoulders.
“I’m okay.” She nods. “I’m just—” She exhales and steps into my arms. “I’m so fucking happy all of that”—her arms wave behind my back—“happened and I finally dared to choose you.”
I wrap my arms tightly around her, thinking about how every wrong turn somehow led us back to each other.